


Love Was the Ghost Whose Shape Kept Shifting

by LadyLade



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, M/M, Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLade/pseuds/LadyLade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How did we end up as those bitter, jaded teenagers we both hate?” Jackson wonders one day when they’ve run out of insults and are, instead, sitting on the bleachers during lunch.</p><p>“Lost love?” Stiles suggests.</p><p>“I think maybe it’s because we’re still clinging to it,” Jackson says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Was the Ghost Whose Shape Kept Shifting

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf Kink meme: In a community where wolves choose their future mates very young, Stiles and Derek are mates, and Derek is ~~four~~ three years older. Stiles has always gotten along fairly decently with Derek, but that all changes when Derek turns ~~eighteen~~ sixteen (when the wolf reaches maturity and starts viewing its mate sexually).
> 
> ...He distances himself further and further from Stiles until Stiles' eighteenth birthday, by which time they don't exactly have the best of relationships. Stiles doesn't know if he can be bonded with a guy who hates him. (Original prompt, which I have drastically cut apart for a shorter summary, is [here](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/2069.html?thread=932373#t932373). Livejournal post is [here](http://ladylade.livejournal.com/18764.html).)

Stiles has known Derek since they were babies. Okay, so Derek was like, three when Stiles was born, but still. Derek is a big baby anyway, it totally counts.

Stiles’ mom and Mrs. Hale like to say that it was love at first sight, and that when Derek held Stiles so, so carefully, Stiles’ mom cried because of lingering pregnancy hormones. Derek likes to say that his wolf mistook Stiles for pack, and that afterwards Derek _had_ to watch out for him.

Stiles likes to say that is all bullshit, and that Derek recognized Stiles’ awesomeness even at such an early age. Like, why _wouldn’t_ Derek feel compelled to worship the ground Stiles walks on?

Ever since that first meeting, Stiles and Derek have been inseparable. Derek’s family (and by family, Stiles means _gigantic werewolf puppy-pile_ ) is loud and always over Derek’s house, so Derek spends most of his time over Stiles’ house, charming Stiles mom (without saying anything, it’s _ridiculous_ ) and eating all of Stiles’ snacks. It’s more noteworthy when Derek is gone than when he’s there; Stiles’ dad claims he always has a mini heart-attack when Derek isn’t at the table for dinner.

It’s great; Stiles gets to talk as much as he wants to and Derek doesn’t call him a girl or a retard when he talks about things like dolphin sex or how high heels are a conspiracy to hobble women. And in return, Derek gets to indulge in growling and glaring and all the antisocial behavior that adults feel they need to “talk” to him about.

Stiles was worried when Derek went to high school, because the high school was _way_ away from the middle school and Stiles wouldn’t have anyone to hang out with during recess. (Plus, Jackson is a jerk when Derek isn’t around.) But, come Stiles’ first day of sixth grade, Derek is there when they all spill out to the schoolyard like the building is on fire.

Stiles gapes, because his mom has always told him that the only thing worse than skipping school is throwing wolfsbane in someone’s face. Which, dude, _wolfsbane_.

“You!” Stiles says, pointing at Derek.

“This isn’t _The Crucible_ ,” Derek says.

“Don’t even start, you closeted geek,” Stiles says. “You skipped school!”

“It’s only English,” Derek says. “I have it during your recess. I just quoted Hamlet’s ‘to be or not to be’ soliloquy at her and she let me go.”

“Closeted. Geek,” Stiles says, because _really_.

But Derek just settles in next to him and Stiles beams, because the world is how it’s supposed to be.

>>> 

Derek can’t come every day, but he comes to recess at least once a week. His teachers must really like him, because each year Derek has English during Stiles’ recess. And Derek always comes.

Well, he comes until he turns sixteen.

Sixteen is a big deal in the werewolf community. When a werewolf turns sixteen, not only does he (or she) gain his rank (Stiles prefers the phrase “power levels” because werewolves are totally Pokemon), he also knows who his mate is. A person’s mate is almost always the same age as him, because turning sixteen is _intense_ , and having to wait for a mate is agony (or so his old-as-dirt parents tell Stiles). It’s more common for someone to not _have_ a mate than it is to have a mate older or younger, and Stiles only knows of three wolves that don’t have mates. (One is Derek’s uncle Peter, who is the sweetest guy Stiles has ever met, and who still thinks there’s hope to find a mate.)

So, the week before Derek turns sixteen, Stiles’ mouth goes into overdrive (he practically worries in Derek’s stead) and Derek gets quieter and more glare-faced. But it’s okay, because when Stiles was five, Derek promised (after much badgering) that they would always be best friends, no matter whom Derek mated.

It doesn’t register right away. Derek had already come to recess that week, and Stiles didn’t expect Derek over after school, what with the whole literally coming-of-age changes and all. But then Derek isn’t at recess or Stiles’ house the second week, or the third.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do.

He keeps calling the Hale house, and various Hale adults keep telling him to give Derek time. (Peter is the only one who agrees that Derek is being a jerk, and he doesn’t even hang up when Stiles rants about Derek’s jerkiness and maybe gets a little teary-eyed. Stiles loves that guy.) Stiles bugs his mom for information, and she just sighs and hugs him. Stiles’ dad is suspiciously busy when Stiles asks about Derek. Stiles can’t even find out whom Derek’s mate is. By now, Stiles hasn’t seen Derek for five weeks.

So Stiles gives up.

But it works out (as Stiles continually tells himself) because, as he’s having a small episode of nostalgia and depression during recess, Scott befriends him. Scott is nice, if a little dumb, and earnest, and thinks Stiles is funny, and is totally a better friend than Derek.

>>> 

During recess one day, Jackson decides to tease Stiles about how even Derek can’t stand Stiles anymore. Stiles doesn’t understand what’s happened at first: one minute he’s calmly think that he could rip Jackson’s throat out with his teeth, and the next he’s _actually trying to_. For a brief moment, when the teachers are freaking out and pulling Stiles off of Jackson, he thinks he glimpses Derek by the tree line, thinks he hears Derek whining in distress. And that’s when it hit Stiles that he’s just lost complete control of his wolf over some stupid comment. That he’s almost killed Jackson, whom he doesn’t like but also doesn’t _hate_ , and has never thought about harming beyond maybe kicking him in the balls.

That’s when it hits Stiles that Derek is an asshole, and Stiles needs to actually _give up on him_.

>>> 

Stiles gets some major, _major_ grounding. The only thing that kept his dad from losing his shit was that Jackson admitted to using Derek to provoke Stiles.

Stiles is still grounded for life, though.

>>> 

Weirdly enough, Jackson actually talks to Stiles after that. Oh, it’s rare and Jackson is still a jerk, but he talks to Stiles like Stiles is actually a person.

Stiles thinks he might have actually made himself a frienemy.

>>> 

After three months, Derek comes over Stiles’ house.

And really, after all this time Derek might as well as just punch Stiles in the chest and leave, because he’s not even over to see Stiles. Apparently, he’s here to change the brake pads on the car.

Stiles wants to go and sit next to Derek and talk away like the past three months have never happened. He wants to so much it feels like his wolf is trying to ram itself out and drag Stiles over there, but.

But Derek hasn’t even looked Stiles’ way, hasn’t even grunted his usual hello. Even half under the car, Derek looks tense, angry. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, an expression that Stiles is very, very familiar with—except it’s Jackson who makes that expression around Stiles, not Derek. So, despite his wolf’s adamant protests, Stiles turns and goes to his room.

It’s the first time in his entire life that Derek has made Stiles cry.

>>> 

Middle school passes like that. Stiles doesn’t see Derek except for when he does, when Derek comes over to fix things and move things and help Stiles’ parents like he’s still Stiles’ best friend. He only speaks to Stiles when necessary, things like, “where’s the meat cleaver” and “Stiles, shut up.” He’s even quieter than he used to be (and really, Derek and his impossibilities can kiss Stiles’ ass), not just with his words but with his body, his scent. It’s like Derek is containing himself, like he needs to push everything down when he’s around Stiles.

But sometimes, sometimes Stiles will surprise Derek—at the grocery store, coming out of the shower, bursting into the house with a story already pouring out of his mouth—and Derek will look at Stiles the way he used to, with affection in the softening of his mouth and eyes. Sometimes Derek will look at Stiles in a way he _isn’t_ used to, that he hasn’t seen before; it isn’t the back-off vibes Derek’s acquired, nor the intimidation of his alpha status, but a different kind of intensity, one that makes the back of Stiles’ neck sweat and his heart race, makes his wolf whine and stir in his chest.

Stiles starts avoiding Derek after that.

>>> 

High school isn’t that bad. Stiles is completely excited and completely terrified his first day, but…it’s school. By the end of the first day, Stiles doesn’t understand why people make such a big deal out of it. Okay, so, six classes instead of like, five, but really, high school is just middle school in a bigger environment.

Also, Stiles doesn’t see Derek.

>>> 

“Oh my god,” Scott moans at lunch. “Dude, how am I going to study for all of these classes?”

“It’s not that bad,” Stiles says. “Just come study with me. And they actually have tutors in high school, instead of just…creepy teachers.”

“Ms. Argent,” they say in unison.

“Great legs, _crazy_ eyes,” Stiles says.

“She used to say she liked my adorable brown eyes,” Scott says.

“See? High school is totally better,” Stiles says.

Scott just snorts into his mystery meat.

>>> 

Okay, so maybe school isn’t going to go as smooth as Stiles thought it would, particularly because he seems to have forgotten that he’s got ADD. And high school is really distracting. Like, all the conversations going on, the lockers that are constantly being opened and closed, the unexpected burst of Derek’s scent…

Yeah. High school’s distracting.

>>> 

One day, Stiles and Jackson get into one of their arguments, where they insult each other (but have subjects that are _completely_ untouchable, like Derek and Jackson’s real parents) and bitch and sneer. It’s a great bonding experience.

“Maybe if you weren’t so runty you’d actually have the balls to play lacrosse,” Jackson says, and then Jackson doesn’t say anything else because suddenly Derek is where Jackson was standing and Jackson is cowering into the lockers.

Derek starts staring Jackson down and Stiles feels something well up in his chest, something hot and grimy that makes him tense, makes his wolf snarl.

“No,” he says. “NO.”

And Derek stares at Stiles instead, stunned—wow, Stiles has actually out-impossibled _Derek Hale_ —and a little bit lost.

“What the hell are you _doing?_ ” Stiles says.

That makes Derek defensive, makes him glower and try to loom over Stiles. “He—”

“I don’t care,” Stiles says. “Maybe if you had been around the past year, you’d know that this is what we _do_.”

And then he brushes past Derek, because Stiles can’t take the lost and hurt look on his face. He wants to punch someone, but he doesn’t know if he wants to punch Derek or himself.

>>> 

After that, Derek doesn’t bother Jackson again.

>>> 

Derek graduates that year. Mrs. Hale stops over to have some woman-time with Stiles’ mom, and Stiles doesn’t ask what Derek’s going to with his life, doesn’t ask if he’s going to go to college or stay in town or backpack across Europe. He doesn’t ask, because it’s none of Stiles’ business anymore.

>>> 

(But sometimes, sometimes, Stiles could swear that he wakes up to Derek’s scent.)

>>> 

“How did we end up as those bitter, jaded teenagers we both hate?” Jackson wonders one day when they’ve run out of insults and are, instead, sitting on the bleachers during lunch.

“Lost love?” Stiles suggests.

“I think maybe it’s because we’re still clinging to it,” Jackson says.

>>> 

“You and Jackson have been hanging out lately,” Scott says, suspicious.

Somehow, Scott and Jackson have become mortal enemies.

“We’re kin,” Stiles says. “Soul brothers. Brothers from another mother. Mother lo—”

“You need to stop, now,” Scott says.

“Yeah, I really do,” Stiles says.

>>> 

The thing about werewolves is that they can have human children. And if one parent is human and one is werewolf, it’s not guaranteed that the child will be a werewolf (although it is way, _way_ more likely to be a wolf if the mother is one).

But a likely sign is if the child is born in early spring.

All the werewolves Stiles knows are born in late March or early April. Stiles was born the first of April (the jokes, the many, many jokes his parents have about that one). Scott was born a week after Stiles. Jackson was born on the same day as Stiles (Stiles really wasn’t kidding about being soul brothers, apparently.) And, well, Derek was born the nineteenth of March.

So, naturally, Stiles starts freaking out about his sixteenth birthday as soon as March comes.

“Dude, you have an _entire month_ ,” Scott says.

“But it’s _only a month_ ,” Stiles says.

“Nature’s own April Fool’s prank, huh?” Scott says.

“I will hurt you like you’ve never been hurt before,” Stiles says.

>>> 

Stiles thinks that Jackson understands Stiles pain, because he keeps bringing him food.

“What? No,” Jackson says. “I keep bringing you food because you shut up when you eat.”

>>> 

“Dad,” Stiles says.

“Too early, Stiles,” his dad says.

Damn. _No one_ understands Stiles’ pain.

>>> 

Stiles almost doesn’t sleep the night before his birthday. He’s completely freaking out, alternating between compulsively cleaning his room and walking down to the kitchen—not to actually eat or drink anything, but just to get up. Finally, his mom makes him some chicken noodle soup, which always calms Stiles down, but she also must drug it because after that, Stiles barely gets to his bed before he passes out.

When he wakes up he feels…the same.

“ _Seriously?_ ” he says to his ceiling, because this is ridiculous. He’s turned _sixteen_ , this day is supposed to be the most important day of his life.

But he feels—nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, and that just pisses him off. Really, _really_ pisses him off, and oh, _that’s_ different.

Maybe Stiles isn’t as unchanged as he thought.

He focuses on his anger, letting it swell inside him, and that’s when he feels it. He can feel his wolf’s power, strong, strong, stronger than it was before, strong and fierce and _excited_ , free in a way Stiles hadn’t know was possible. It’s like his wolf has been tranquilized this entire time, and Stiles feels fucking _amazing_.

“Dude, I think I’m an alpha,” Stiles says to the ceiling.

The ceiling looks like it agrees.

Which—holy shit, he’s an _alpha?_ Stiles did not see that one coming. Thank god he gets to take the day off.

>>> 

Stiles slips between beta and alpha all day before stabilizing, which makes a lot more sense. He’s still an alpha, but he’s also an alpha’s mate—which is great, because Stiles can do the whole in-charge thing, but he’s better as the brains of the operation, rather than the brawn. And anyway, statuses don’t have a lot to do with werewolf life anymore (well, unless you’re an omega, but that’s because people are _dicks_ ).

He’s still not used to his wolf standing to attention so much, though.

>>> 

The front door opens and closes in around five, and Stiles bolts down stairs, so excited for his parents to find out that he can’t stop grinning. They’ve never put much stock into werewolf statuses, but they’re going to be so _proud_ of him.

The scent stops him dead.

That isn’t his parents, that’s—Stiles knows that scent better than his own, and that’s Derek’s scent.

And Stiles’ wolf rises up in him, begging to go and meet Derek and claim Derek and let Derek claim _him_ , and oh god, oh god, Derek is Stiles’ _mate._

The wolf is elated to have such a strong mate but Stiles, Stiles is _devastated_. This isn’t what mating should be. Mating should be one of the happiest moments in Stiles’ life, not one of the worst. Derek _hates_ Stiles, has made that perfectly clear, and now Stiles knows why: Stiles is Derek’s mate. No wonder he stopped coming over when he turned sixteen. Derek must have been disgusted.

Stiles can smell Derek getting closer and, in a moment of sheer irrational fear, his human fight-or-flight manages to overpower his wolf; he darts up the stairs and slams the lock on his door into place, shutting and locking his window as well. Then he huddles in his closet, knees folded to his chest, and tries to remember how to breathe.

Because for one moment, Stiles almost gave into his wolf.

For one moment, Stiles almost mated with a person who hates him.

>>> 

Derek doesn’t, in fact, leave when he finds that Stiles has locked him out. Sure, Derek could just break down the door, but he doesn’t do that either. Instead, Derek sits in the hall against Stiles’ door, and Stiles quietly panics in his closet.

Eventually, his dad gets home and makes Derek leave.

“Stiles,” his dad says, soft and warm and sad when Stiles opens the door.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but he’s still shaking as his dad pulls him into a hug, tight and engulfing like when Stiles was half the size he is now. It makes Stiles feel like he’s hidden, protected.

“I’m proud of you, son,” his dad whispers.

>>> 

Stiles goes to school the next day because, for once, school is useful: School is the ultimate Operation Avoid Derek tool.

He meets Jackson out at the bleachers during lunch; he’s pretty sure that Jackson has been there since he got to school.

“Really, not an alpha?” Stiles says.

“Really, not an omega?” Jackson replies.

“What can I say?” Stiles says. “These hips _weren’t_ made for child-bearing.”

“You sure about that?” Jackson says.

“My hips don’t lie,” Stiles says, and then cracks up when Jackson gives him the evil eye.

“We’re going to have a My Life Sucks contest,” Jackson says, “because it’s the only thing I’ll win at today. I’m a beta, which my parents are all tearful about. And, here’s the _best_ part, I just found out that my mate is Scott.”

Stiles stares for a moment, because that’s kind of a _lot_ to take in.

“Dude,” he says, “there are so many things wrong with that sentence—and I’m not counting you being a beta one, by the way—that I don’t even know where to start.”

“Your turn,” Jackson says. “Impress me, Stilinski.”

“My mate is Derek,” Stiles says. “He came over yesterday and I locked him out of my room while I had a very manly panic attack in my closet.”

Jackson finally looks at Stiles, staring at him in grudging horror. “Wow,” he says, “I was hoping that your life would suck like usual, but that’s so shitty I can’t even laugh at it.”

“Derek hates me,” Stiles says. “I’m mated to the only guy on the planet that hates me so much he decided to act like he was mateless instead of telling me I was his mate.”

“Scott is convinced that that Argent girl is his mate,” Jackson says. “He’s swears that she makes his wolf calm.”

“Dude, I think we’ve become losers,” Stiles says.

“Speak for yourself,” Jackson says, but he doesn’t sound convincing at all.

They stay on the bleachers all day, unspeaking and solemn.

>>> 

“Stiles, about Derek,” his mom says that night.

“Hey, did I tell you Scott is Jackson’s mate?” Stiles says.

His mom frowns, her eyes sad, but she lets Stiles talk about Jackson and Scott anyway.

>>> 

The next day of school, Jackson sits on the bleachers all day again.

“Are you having a mid-life crisis?” Stiles says as he joins him, handing over his second sandwich.

“I can’t be around him,” Jackson says.

“What, Scott? C’mon, he’s a little dumb but he’s not _that_ bad,” Stiles says.

“He is that bad,” Jackson says, “but that’s not the problem. The problem is that indecent exposure is a misdemeanor. Did you know that California still prosecutes people for sodomy?”

“Wait, _what_ ,” Stiles says.

“Yup,” Jackson says, “Every time I see Scott, I want to fuck him through the ground.”

Stiles stares at Jackson, then decides the best option is to stare…anywhere _but_ Jackson. This is information that Stiles never needs to have about Jackson _or_ Scott.

“Even that stupid fucking hair cut is hot,” Jackson says. “It really is the stupidest haircut in the world, and his bangs make me want to murder puppies on principle, but whenever I see him all I think is that his hair is the perfect length to fist when he’s—”

“Oh my god!” Stiles yelps, covering his ears. “Oh my god, stop talking, _please_ stop talking, why would you even say that in the first place, why am I still _sitting here with you_ —”

“You know,” Jackson says abruptly, “maybe you should talk to Derek.”

“Hmm, let me think—NO,” Stiles says.

“No, really, I don’t know how he didn’t hunt you down and bang your ass back then,” Jackson says.

“You’re mated to _Scott_ ,” Stiles says, but the comeback feels stupid and hollow, and Jackson smirks like he knows Stiles’ _soul_.

Thankfully, though, Jackson doesn’t push it. Once again, they pass the end of the school day in silence on the bleachers.

>>> 

Derek has to hate Stiles; that’s the only explanation for why he was so _angry_ whenever he got close to Stiles. Derek acted like Stiles was the most insignificant thing in the world, but.

>>> 

Stiles waits. Derek may be letting Stiles have his space for now, but despite how quiet Derek is, patience is not his best virtue. Soon, Derek is probably going to track Stiles down to glare at him like the asshole that he is. In the meantime, Stiles amuses himself by watching Jackson seduce Scott by eating bananas and deserts with whipped cream.

(Stiles has an entire _album_ of photos entitled: Scott’s Horrified Yet Aroused Face. He sent it to Jackson one day, and Jackson called him just so Stiles could hear him laughing hysterically—Stiles is pretty sure that Jackson laughed so hard he cried, at the end.)

He also gets Scott’s frantic call when he realizes that _Jackson_ is his mate.

“I probably should have given you a heads-up, huh?” Stiles says.

“You _knew?!_ Oh my god, what am I going to _do?_ ” Scott says.

“Well,” Stiles says, “You can either take it like a man, or you can blow him and hope that means you get to top.”

“You are the worst friend ever,” Scott says.

(Yet, the next night, Scott texts, _Dude, I know we agreed never to talk about our sex lives, but you are a lifesaver._

Jackson texts, _Fuck you Stilinski, you screwed up my plans._

Stiles texts back, _By plans do you mean ass?_

Jackson doesn’t text him back.)

>>> 

Two weeks pass, and then Derek finally breaks.

Stiles is half asleep when he feels the air shift, and then the room floods with Derek’s scent. It’s ten on a Saturday night and Stiles’ parent are, thankfully, still out with friends—his dad may be the Sheriff, but he still parties hard. (Okay, he’s probably playing canasta or some shit like that, but it still counts.)

Stiles has been waiting for this, he _has_ , but now that this moment has arrived, he wants it to leave.

“You suck at pretending to sleep,” Derek says after Stiles stays quiet and doesn’t move.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. “I’m awesome at everything.”

Derek sits at his desk, which makes this easier and harder. Easier, because Stiles can keep his eyes closed and pretend this is just a dream, just a visualization of the time Derek really confronts him. Harder, because it makes Stiles aware of just how much his wolf _wants_ Derek.

They stay in silence in the muted light of Stiles’ room, the streetlight and the quarter moon turning lines into highlights and planes into matte and darkness. For a long time Stiles listens to the rhythm of his heartbeat and Derek’s, dissimilar but compelling. Finally, when the space they’ve created feels sluggish, surreal, Stiles speaks.

“You left,” he says.

Derek must feel it too, because it takes him a while to reply.

“I couldn’t stay,” Derek says. “You were too young. I would have forced you.”

“Derek, you wouldn’t—”

“I would have forced you,” Derek says. “I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

“You hate me,” Stiles says. “What’s so uncontrollable about that?”

Derek makes a low, pained noise. “You’re my mate,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t love me,” Stiles says.

“Of course I do,” Derek says, soft as the light.

Stiles waits, breathes, collects himself.

“I don’t—” Even now, even when this doesn’t feel completely real, it’s hard for Stiles. “I don’t trust you.”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“You _left_. You didn’t even tell me that I was you mate. Fuck, Derek, you didn’t even let your family tell me, although now that I think about it I’m pretty sure Peter would have if I kept calling, because that guy is _awesome_. What am I supposed to think?” Stiles says.

Derek’s breath is ragged, absurdly loud in the room. “I thought it would be easier,” he says. “You would have pushed, you would have wanted to be around me.”

Stiles shakes his head, buries it in his pillow. When Derek stands, sidles to the bed, Stiles tenses but doesn’t move.

“That day, when you and Jackson were arguing?” Derek says. “I was trying to stay away from you, but it scared me. I thought you two were going to fight again.”

“Again?” Stiles asks, because the word tugs at his mind, tries to pull something forward that he’s forgotten.

“I was there,” Derek says. “I used to watch you at recess from the woods. I was there when you attacked Jackson.”

“But you left,” Stiles says.

“I should have,” Derek says.

And that—that changes things. Not everything, because Derek is still an asshole and he was still _wrong_. But it changes enough, enough to change the perspective Stiles has to use; he has to slot memories around now, make them fit differently. And they do fit differently, slotting into a place where Derek _was_ containing himself, yes, but out of longing; where tense muscles weren’t from anger, but from fraying control. Where Derek was staying away because he had to, coming back because he couldn’t stay away.

“You’re a _dick_ ,” Stiles says.

“Shallow,” Derek says, and Christ, Stiles shouldn’t be laughing but he is.

It’s been a long time since Stiles has heard Derek tell a joke. He forgot how clever Derek can be.

Derek moves over him, shifting across the bed until he’s on his hands and knees above Stiles, and he waits. He waits as Stiles finally opens his eyes, as Stiles takes in how _gorgeous_ Derek looks in this light, takes in the slope of Derek’s nose and the deep set of his eyes, the sharpness of his jaw and cheeks and chin that look like curves when Derek is happy but harsh angles when Derek is frustrated. He takes in Derek’s mouth, naturally curved down so that he always looks slightly angry until he smiles.

Stiles’ wolf is, ironically, quiet, subdued; maybe it’s because the wolf has already chosen, has no more part in this, and all that’s truly left is the mating of their human sides.

“You better have brought lube,” Stiles says, and he is the master of sexy because Derek grins, his eyes bright in the dim light, and then he leans down to kiss Stiles.

And, oh, god, Stiles’ wolf is completely still, completely silent, so there is nothing to distract Stiles from how Derek’s lips move against his, how Stiles is suddenly hyperaware the heat coming from Derek. There is nothing to distract Stiles from the fact that Derek is only touching him lips to lips, then tongue to tongue, long, slow, dragging kisses that make Stiles pant.

When Derek lowers himself down on Stiles, Stiles feels enclosed, and also very, very hot. Like, overheated hot.

“Dude,” he says when he can break away from Derek’s mouth, “too hot.”

Derek looks ridiculously amused, and Stiles glares at him.

“ _Literally_ ,” Stiles says. “You still have your jacket on, and I’m under a mound of blankets.”

Derek pushes off of Stiles, taking the blankets as he goes, and Stiles breathes in nice, cool air. And then Derek sheds his jacket and shirt, and Stiles is starting to feel too hot again.

“Takes your shirt off,” Derek murmurs, already sliding his hands under Stiles’ shirt and pushing up, and oh, hell, how are Stiles’ ribs this sensitive?

They get the shirt off with only minor awkward flailing, and then Derek crowds in again, this time nuzzling into Stiles’ jaw and mouthing, biting softly. Stiles shivers, touches Derek for the first time: slides a hand through Derek’s thick, course hair, fingers over Derek’s ribs to learn the twitch of Derek’s muscles.

“If we go any further, I won’t stop,” Derek says against Stiles’ jaw.

“Yeah, I’ve figured that bit of common sense out,” Stiles says.

Derek nods into his neck, presses a kiss to the tendon, and then levers himself off the bed. He kicks off his shoes, his socks, then rests a hand on the button of his jeans, eyes shadowed. Even though Derek is standing, even though there are feet of space between them, Stiles feels pinned as Derek pops the button and unzips his jeans, dragging them and his boxers down and kicking them off the way almost all werewolves do: completely unselfconscious. He stands there, planes of matte and darkness, unmoving and quiet as Stiles just looks.

Derek grins, sharp and excited, when Stiles finally tears his gaze up to Derek’s face.

“You’re going to need to be naked for this to work,” Derek says.

“No, really, you’re a dick,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes, and then he wiggles his way out of his boxers. Derek’s eyes flash red, then dark as his pupils blow wide. He doesn’t crawl on the bed or slink over top of Stiles; one moment he’s standing very, very still, and the next he’s _actually_ pinning Stiles, slotting them together and _rolling_ his hips.

Stiles whines, snaps his teeth at the air because his body is out of control; he doesn’t know how to process the sensation of Derek pressing him into the bed, hot and unmovable, of Derek sliding hot and thick against him. Derek pins him down with his hips and his hands and his mouth, demands that Stiles arches into him, demands that Stiles whine and pant and moan into Derek.

He releases Stiles’ mouth, pushes his faces into Stiles’ neck, and Stiles can feel his nostril flare as he takes in Stiles’ scent. And then, Derek marks him.

He mouths with his lips, then with his teeth, sucking on Stiles skin: on his neck, his shoulder, his collar bone. Stiles will have a littler of bruises, like mulberry stains, creating a map across him. Derek moves downward, thumbs Stiles’ nipples, sucks on Stiles’ ribs until Stiles is writhing.

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” Stiles pants, words unreachable. All he has left is Derek’s name, and he hopes that Derek understands that it means, _hurry up, you fucker_.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“If you tell me to relax, I will fucking kill you,” Stiles says. He will, and it will be justified.

Derek twists his hips in a way that sends sparks shooting across Stiles’ vision, and when he when he can focus on anything besides the way his body is hot and electrified, he realizes that Derek is reaching off the bed, pulling a bottle out of his pocket.

 _Presumptuous_ , Stiles thinks, and he uses that flare of anger to dig his nails in Derek’s shoulders, to make him _move_.

Derek snarls, eyes a ring of red, and he flips Stiles over fast enough to give Stiles vertigo, almost crushing Stiles under his weight; and he closes his teeth around the nape of Stiles’ neck, pressing down just enough that Stiles stills under him. Stiles pants harshly and, when Derek is satisfied, he finally lets go; he drags his tongue across Stiles’ neck in broad strokes.

Stiles stays quiet, and spreads his legs and tilts his hips when Derek moves him until he’s on his knees and elbows.

Derek moves down his body, skimming his fingers over Stiles’ ribs, and Stiles shivers. Then Derek is tonguing at the small of Stiles’ back and spreading him open, and then Stiles might have stopped breathing for a moment, because Derek is tonguing his _rim_ , firm and hot and slick.

Stiles understands, in a detached way, that those high moans are his, but with pleasure shocking up his spine, he can’t really care about it. Because Derek is _fluttering_ his tongue against Stiles, and then Stiles is fluttering back at him, begging with his body; opening up until Derek can slide his tongue _in_ , and oh, god, Stiles is going to _die_.

“Derek, DerekDerekDerek,” Stiles babbles, circling his hips back to Derek.

Derek pulls away, says, “Easy, Stiles,” and what the mother fucking _fuck_ , that is _not_ what Stiles wants. He thrusts his hips back, demanding that Derek keeping rimming him _now_ , and Derek groans.

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, and then he’s sliding a slick finger against Stiles, and pressing in, in, in.

And Stiles pushes back, because it feels _fantastic_ , it feels filling and solid and weird. Derek toggles his finger, then pulls it out, presses two in. And that’s even better, thicker and more demanding, and Stiles is grinding back against Derek’s hand.

Then Stiles _jackknifes_ , his hips flying up and back, when Derek crooks his fingers. Stiles knows that must be his prostate, but _Jesus_ ; the sensation is overwhelming, almost too much for him to handle. And Derek, the bastard, rubs the pads of his fingers against it, riding the bucks of Stiles’ hips until Stiles is shaking, whining high and tight in his throat.

“Stiles, you, are you—” Derek sounds _wrecked_ , his voice deep and hoarse.

“ _Now_ ,” Stiles says, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow, trying to calm down as Derek slips his fingers out.

He can hear a squelching sound, knows that Derek must be drowning himself in lube, and twitches as he waits. Then Derek is back behind him, one hand on his hip, the other guiding himself to Stiles. He doesn’t thrust, just presses, presses; presses until Stiles pulses open and Derek slides in.

Oh. _Oh_.

Derek curls over Stiles’ back and stays there, still, waiting as Stiles pants and trembles, stretched and full and feeling like Derek is molding him into a different person. He’s so lost in his head that it takes a while to hear it, to realize that Derek is speaking into his shoulder, a muffled, “mine, mine,” over and over again.

“Fuck that, you’re _mine_ ,” Stiles gasps out, because who is Derek kidding? Stiles is totally going to rule this relationship.

Derek growls, the sound rumbling from his chest into Stiles’ spine, and then he starts rocking his hips against Stiles, slow and thorough.

Stiles pants, rocks back, and as their speed starts building, as Derek starts thrusting, he can feel the pleasure raveling in the base of his spine, tighter and tighter.

Derek angles his hips, snaps them forward, and Stiles claws against the sheets, trying to keep himself anchored even as he feels like he’s being swept away. Derek is mouthing at his shoulders, his neck, groaning and moaning, trembling just as bad as Stiles is. It’s too much: the feel of Derek moving inside him, against him; the sound of Derek’s panting breath against Stiles’ shoulder; the _heat_ of Derek. The tension in Stiles snaps, and Stiles shakes through it, feels Derek thrust into him and stay there, a small, soft whine escaping him.

With Derek slumped over him, Stiles’ limbs finally give out and he thumps down on the bed, breath going out of him in an _oof_ as Derek tries to fall besides Stiles, but only makes it halfway.

“Sorry,” Derek slurs, carefully sliding himself out of Stiles and settling beside him properly, no lung crushing involved.

They lie there, Derek curling into Stiles and snuffling into his neck, and Stiles feels…like he should probably figure out how he feels later, when his brain can care about things like sleeping in the wet spot and how he and Derek have really only complicated things by adding sex to a (for the moment) shitty relationship.

“Words,” Stiles says, because really, he has none in his vocabulary.

“You can yell at me tomorrow,” Derek promises.

 _Yeah,_ Stiles thinks, _this might actually work_.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Rebecca McClanahan's [_Making Love_](http://poetry365.tumblr.com/post/66350099/making-love-rebecca-mcclanahan). Because when in doubt, I turn to poetry.


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